


24(th)

by Cibee (Cibeeeee)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alone on Christmas, Christmas Eve, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sentient Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21938653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cibeeeee/pseuds/Cibee
Summary: “It’s really no trouble,” he declared to the room. “I don’t care if he comes home two days after Christmas or two months after, as long as he remembers presents.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 233





	24(th)

_Why_ did it matter?

There was no conceivably logical reason for a number to matter. Because that was what it essentially was. One out of thirty-one. Why did it matter if it was on the twenty-seventh, or the twenty-fourth?

Draco stared miserably at the ornate grandfather clock, and the little 24 displayed on it. 

“It’s really no trouble,” he declared to the room. “I don’t care if he comes home two days after Christmas or two months after, as long as he remembers presents. Seven, I was promised. Four for each day he missed, plus the three he was going to get me in the first place.”

The clock creaked. 

“Yes, well,” Draco said. “Of course I don’t need seven presents, but I couldn’t let him think I was going soft, and that he can just take up whatever job his boss throws at him all the time, now can I?”

The floorboard creaked. 

“The audacity!” Draco yelled at the ground. “Perhaps I like the Manor better than you!” 

All the embroidered flowers on the wallpaper wilted at the same time. And the lights on the Christmas tree dimmed significantly. 

“Oh, the dramatics,” Draco huffed, dropping onto the sofa. “I was only joking.”

The room didn’t return to its former, less depressing state, not that it had been the embodiment of the holiday to begin with. It had been acting like so since Potter left on the twenty-first, harried and guilty, promising he will send letters every day. All seven of them! 

Draco had slammed the door in his face. Then sent an apology note in advance to Potter’s destination. But ever since then, Heathermoor Cottage had been in mourning. And the shouting match Draco had with the house as soon as Potter left didn’t help matters, even though Draco thought he was being perfectly reasonable when he told the house to suck it because it had only known Potter for a year and Draco had been with him for four, so really, Draco should be the one that was upset!

Attempts at ignoring Potter’s letters were thwarted, as well. If Draco left the letter on the table, it would appear on the closest surface wherever he went. If Draco threw it out the window, the wind would pick it up and drop it down the chimney. Once, Draco tried to burn it, but the fireplace spat the letter out, right into Draco’s face.

None of Potter’s daily letters were opened, and he reassured Potter of the delectation in Draco’s daily letter to Potter, so the house could carry on keeping the letter for all Draco cared!

Glaring at nothing, Draco shot up from the sofa and stomped to the clock once more. The glimmering 24 was still mocking him.

“It’s not fair,” Draco said to it. “This is our first Christmas as . . . as, you know!” 

The house did know. They held the ceremony in the garden, after all. 

“I suppose the twenty-seventh is good enough as well,” Draco insisted to the house as he tried to cheer himself up. “Then on the thirty-first, Granger-Weasley and Parkinson-Zabini will be back, and we will all toast to a New Year. So, really, this actually works out better. I can finally read all the books I neglected because Potter was simply too annoying.”

The house creaked forlornly. 

“Oh, fuck off then!” Draco snapped miserably, then went to draw himself a bath in the murky bathroom.

The bath did no good except warm him up. Draco sat in front of the fireplace, Potter’s thick stack of letters in his lap. He toasted his hands until his ring was burning then he toasted it some more. He warmed himself a piece of treacle tart and didn’t eat it. He looked at the 24 on the clock and tried to tell himself he was supposed to be old enough to not care.

When the clock struck eleven, Draco gave up his moping and retreated to the bedroom. The sooner he slept the sooner Christmas Day will come and pass. Then sooner the twenty-seventh will come.

Draco buried his face into his ice-cold pillow. 

“Stupid,” Draco mumbled into the pillow. “Potter.”

“I know,” a voice said. “I’m sorry.”

Draco yelped and threw the pillow toward the voice, and it yelped as the pillow made contact. 

“Morgana and Crowley!” Draco said. 

“It’s actually Harry and Potter,” Harry said, dropping his satchel carelessly on the ground. “Hi.”

“What — what are you doing home?” Draco said.

Harry smiled crookedly. “I missed you,” he said. “So I told Timothy to take over and came home.”

“What kind of boss are you, treating poor Timothy like so?” Draco said. “Does he not have family, friends and lovers waiting for him? Shouldn’t it be your duty to liberate all poor souls on this planet?”

“He was practically wetting himself from excitement when I left,” Harry said. “And there’s only one poor soul I’m interested in liberating.”

Then Harry’s lips were on Draco’s even though Draco had no memory of them even moving. The cold bed suddenly felt different, like a different kind of cold, the kind that was meant for you to fall into with another person. Harry cupped Draco’s face pressed in until Draco’s lips stung with warmth. Draco buried his fingers into Harry’s hair, cold from his journey home. The chill of the bed drew them in and they went, slowly, still tucked into each other.

“The house missed you,” Draco said, eyes closed, lips seeking Harry still. “I certainly didn’t. I hardly noticed. I’m only indulging in your sentimentality.”

“Yeah, the Christmas lights almost blinded me when I walked in,” Harry kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth again and again. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“That’s what people say,” Draco’s words were muffed in Harry’s mouth, but he kept talking anyway. “It’s . . . it’s all about . . . compromising . . . or some rot . . . ” Draco sighed bonelessly. “Keep kissing me.”

Harry didn’t respond. He wormed his arms between Draco and the bed, pulling. His lips closing on Draco’s top lip, then bottom lip, then back again, so he could keep kissing Draco and Draco could also keep talking. Letters really couldn’t do Draco justice.

It was less than an hour until Christmas, and Draco still didn’t understand why some days were more important than others, but he supposed it didn’t matter why; it just mattered that it was. And thank Merlin and Morgana and Crowley and the guy that was born tomorrow or anyone else that Harry thought so too. That some days with certain numbers made some things more important than others. Timothy was wetting his pants at being in charge or whatever, and Harry was here, kissing Draco on Christmas Eve, and probably will keep doing so on Christmas Day.

Harry pulled back slightly. “It’s almost Christmas,” he panted. “Do you want to open your presents? Seven, like I promised.”

“ _Oh_ , who _cares_ ,” Draco snapped. “I distinctly remember telling you to keep kissing me. Has the bureaucracy finally rotted your brain?” 

“Probably,” Harry said. “It’s black and shriveled and it will be forever and ever and ever before it’s useable again. Maybe even after the New Year.”

“Splendid,” Draco said. “I shall keep you here until then.”

As they sank back into each other, it was like the house heaved a great sigh. It creaked and shuddered. The stack of unopened but somehow well-thumbed letters appeared on the bedside table, ready to be opened in the morning. Draco would laugh at it and Harry would look at Draco laugh. But for now, they grasped each other tightly on a cold bed in a snow-covered cottage. The flowers on the wallpaper fluttered and bloomed as Draco wrapped his arms around Harry, finally soothed.


End file.
